A Missing Meister and a Woeful Weapon
by ImpossibleNine
Summary: The night after Maka's funeral, Soul gets a mysterious call, claiming the weapon can bring his meister back. How much, exactly, will Soul do to try and recover his meister? (Rated T for future events)
1. Chapter 1

A Missing Meister and a Woeful Weapon

Rain spattered against the windows of the dark, still apartment, lit only by the malicious moon. A lone soul silently entered the dismal grounds, dropping a water-drenched jacket on the floor of the spotless apartment. His white hair was slick with water, making it stick to the back of his neck, as he collapsed on the couch. The storm had made it so no one could distinguish tears from rain, which had been all the better for Soul Eater Evans.

_It was a mission in France_, Soul had thought. _Nothing bad ever happens in France. City of cool pastries and romantic stuff. _

He had quickly, however, been disproven. A sorceress lived in Paris, where he and Maka had flown for a quick mission. They had been given three days to accomplish their goal, to acquire the witch's soul, making Soul a death scythe. The first day, he and Maka had toured the city, which Maka had called "familiarizing herself with the city in case something happened". Wherever croissant eating and going to the Eiffel Tower fit into that category, Soul would never know.

The second day was when things got bad. That day, they had found the witch, hiding beneath the Catacombs of Paris. Maka dreaded fighting underground, saying how it made it harder to wield Soul, but had insisted they continue to make Soul a death scythe. Admittedly, Soul had wanted to become a death scythe, but had not wanted his meister to risk her life on his behalf. He had suggested they wait another day. Maka had charged into the catacombs, not looking back.

By the time night had fallen, a lustrous soul was theirs, along with many major wounds. Soul had carried Maka out of the dark underground caves on his back for only a mile or so, before both collapsed, unconscious, in the streets, rain pounding on their weak backs. An old shopkeeper had spotted the wounded partners and telephoned the ambulance.

In the third day, the situation had gotten from bad to worse. Soul had recovered from his wounds, and was able to be discharged from the hospital. Maka, on the other hand, was having trouble making a full recovery. She had not woken up. Wires and tubes were keeping her alive. She didn't look like the meister Soul had fought with. This one was… broken.

Soul used the hospital phone to call Death City, asking for a few more days in Italy. Lord Death had insisted the two return, even after being informed of Maka's state of health. He said that if anyone knew how to help Maka, it was the nurses of Death City, who were accustomed to treating wounded teens.

Two days after they returned home, Maka passed away. Soul was there. He watched as the blips of her heart on the machine died, striking a single note that seemed to pierce through his soul. He had snuck in at night, visiting after hours; no one was around to bring Maka back.

The despondent death scythe glanced out the large apartment windows from his spot on the couch. A bloody smiling moon seemed to be laughing at Soul. Mocking him for his sorrow. The weapon scowled, shoving his hands in his pockets and getting off the couch. Soul sullenly sauntered into Maka's room, with its perfectly folded bed sheets and alphabetically arranged bookshelf. He had not been in her room since they got home, assuming she would have Maka Chopped him if she found out he had.

He sat on her bed, staring at the room. It smelled like Maka, a familiar, calming aroma. He glanced at the book on her desk. A biography on Mozart. He smiled. She had still been trying to understand his love of music.

A blue light pulsed in his pants pocket, and a few piano notes rang in the silent air. Soul's cell phone. He flipped open the small blue phone, analyzing the screen in the dark. Unknown number. Soul almost sent them to voicemail, fingering hovering over the button, but abruptly decided against it. He pressed talk.

"Hello?" his voice answered in the silence.

"Hello, Soul. What if I told you that you could do the impossible?"

"Eh?"

"What if I told you that you could bring Maka back?"


	2. Chapter 2

The bed springs creaked as Soul stood up. "Who is this?" he demanded, clenching the phone harder.

"No one you need to know," the voice purred.

"Then what's this talk about bringing Maka back?" he questioned skeptically.

"Oh, just something I thought you should be told. That there _is_ a way to bring Maka back. You have to follow my instructions quickly and efficiently if you ever want to see your precious meister again."

"What do you want?" he asked, leaning in Maka's doorway.

"I want you to forfeit your status," the voice answered, an evil grin audible in its voice.

"You want—."

"I want your souls, Soul. All one hundred. By tomorrow at noon. Deposit them behind the alley of Chupa Cabras and I'll give you something you're going to need."

Soul closed the door to Maka's room, the click sounding loud in the quiet apartment. The tension was palpable, like a fist in Soul's stomach. He ran a hand through his damp hair, hesitating as he reached the back of the dirty, cream colored strip of gauze wrapped around his head. "Alright. But if you're screwing with me, your soul is mine," Soul declared.

"Very good, Soul. Very good," the voice said, and the call ended.

Soul's arm dropped to his side, holding the cell phone in his left hand. He could be making the biggest mistake of a lifetime. Every scrap and section of media told him dead people never came back. Ever.

But what if they were wrong?

What if there was a way to get Maka back?

He collapsed at the kitchen table, holding his head in his hands, crimson eyes staring through the table. In theory, it could work. Death means that the soul has left the body. What if he returned the soul to the body? This could be exactly what the stranger was offering him. Perhaps Maka could be returned to him in a matter of days.

"Scythe-y boy! Wake uuuuup! Blair is bored!" a lighthearted, flirtatious voice called, and Soul opened his bleary eyes. He had fallen asleep at the table, a glob of drool hanging off his chin. Blair waltzed towards the stove, clad in only an apron and panties, swinging a spatula through the air.

"Now Maka isn't here to make you breakfast, so I'm going to, okay?" she declared, throwing open the cabinet doors.

"Blair, not now. I'm busy," Soul mumbled, wiping the drool off his chins with his shirt sleeve and slinking off his seat to shuffle towards his room.

"But Souuuuuul! If you don't eat soon it'll be lunch time!" Blair whined, bottom lip protruded and quivering.

"What?" he asked, wheeling around, the dark circles underneath his eyes making his expression appear more angry than surprised.

"Nyah! It's 11:30! You slept so late, Soul! I was so lonely!" she moaned, throwing herself at him.

"Blair! I have something really important I have to do. This. Is. Not. Cool!" he yelled, prying the sexy kitty off him.

"Fine. Then Blair will have lunch ready for when you get home," she winked, returning to her spot in front of the stove. "Don't worry, Soul! It'll be delicious!"

"Right, Blair," Soul stated flatly, swiping his motorcycle keys from the counter and shoving his student ID in his pants pocket. Sure, perhaps he still wore his funeral attire from yesterday, but Lord Death would not likely care. _He_ wore the same thing every day.

Soul threw on his motorcycle goggles, snapping the band around his head. He adjusted the lens, the bright light of morning burning his eyes. "Crappy day to stop being a death scythe," he mumbled, dress shoes slamming on the pedals and black tie whipping back in the wind. At least his red dress shirt was no longer soggy.

First stop, the DWMA.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Alright, so I guess I owe an author's note right about now? _

_Hello to everyone who's stuck with me thus far! And thank you to all the people who commented/reviewed/ liked! I'm still sort of new at __**writing**__ fanfic and actually using an account so pardon me if I don't have proper etiquette while using this. But yes thank you. So now for the real author's note!_

_Around this time it would be good to watch Soul as he enters/exits places. It's going to become important later on. :3 Okay thank you for reading this bit and enjoy chapter three! _

The wind ruffled Soul's hair as he sped through the narrow streets of Death City. People murmured and gawked at the death scythe, as he had yet to speak to anyone since Maka died. That had been a five days ago. This was the first of Soul Eater Evans anyone in the city had seen in a while.

Soul swerved to a stop beneath the DWMA, with its soaring midnight towers and gigantic flaming candles and overall Halloween-esque look. A yellow and black sneaker kicked out the stand, and Soul tossed the goggles back on the seat, dashing for the stairs. It was a Friday morning, of course Lord Death would be in school, Soul told himself. Perhaps Soul's arrival would not be anticipated, as death scythes did not need to go to school, but he would get the souls removed as soon as possible.

"Soul. What are you doing here?" Spirit called from the side of the entrance, leaning against a pillar. A cigarette hung from his mouth, a new habit he had picked up after Maka died. A puff of smoke escaped the side of Spirit's mouth as Soul paused to look at the man.

"What are you doing, Death Scythe," Soul mumbled, staring at the only other person who could compete with Soul's untidy appearance. Spirit had become a waste of a man after Maka died. He smoked, he drank, he missed sleep and rarely ate, along with developing a strong disregard for hygiene.

"I could be asking you the same question," Spirit answered, greasy hair sliding in front of his face.

"Get that damn cigarette out of your mouth, Death Scythe. Maka would chop you if she could," Soul reprimanded, fists clenched. Spirit had always ticked off Soul, but with Maka gone, Soul no longer had to play the "calm partner" role.

"Like you have the authority to talk about my daughter," Spirit answered, glaring at Soul, cigarette bobbing as he talked.

"Damn right I do. You're not the only one who's lost sleep around here," Soul replied, angrily marching into the school.

"The day that octopus head shows me something…" Sprit mumbled, staring at the vast city beneath the academy. The cigarette hit the ground, smoldering with heat, before being smothered by a shoe. "Soul. I owe an apology."

Soul strode past the classes full of content meisters and weapons, all smiling or concentrating or dozing off like he used to. None glanced outside at the brooding, unkempt death scythe, and Soul quickly appeared outside the doors to the Death Room, a giant black door decorated with golden spirals. His hand clenched around the handle, frozen around the cool metal. Soul glanced away from the door. This wasn't right. Trying to bring dead people back, making deals with shifty strangers, all of it. Soul huffed, and then swung the door open.

"Lord Death!" he called as the door swung open, taking one large step, but freezing solid as he spied a meister and weapon with the powerful Shinigami.

"Oh, sorry, Soul! I wasn't expecting you! Just give me a moment!" Lord Death answered, holding up one large hand.

Soul, no doubt disheveled and ominous looking, attracted the attention of the younger partners. The girl had long hair and glasses, along with a formal shirt and attentive gaze. Her partner, and likely the weapon, slouched over, wearing an oversize sweatshirt and a baseball cap pulled low over his face. Their gaze lingered on the death scythe, before snapping back to Shinigami.

"No, you get it you two?" Lord Death finished, staring at the children in question.

"Yes, sir!" the girl declared.

"Good. Great. Can we get out of here now? I'm starving," the boy complained.

"You're not very mature. You're lucky you're a weapon so you don't _do_ any work," the girl glared.

"I do too. I eat the souls. And I have to shift between forms. Duh," he said, whirling around to start walking out the door. "At least I look better than that guy."

"That's a death scythe, idiot!" she admonished quietly, the two leaving the Death Room. "And he's a real scythe just like you!"

"Whatever. Let's get going," he said, and the door slammed after the partners, leaving Soul and Lord Death alone.

"Hiya Soul, how's it going!" Lord Death questioned with a wave.

"Lord Death, I need to ask something of you. I need you to remove the souls. All 100," Soul stated.

"Now, Soul, why would you do that?" Shinigami asked with a cock of the head.

"Lord Death, trust me. I can't be your death scythe right now."

"If this is about—."

"This _isn't _about Maka," Soul interrupted. "It's something this cool guy's gotta do."

"Are you sure? This really is a big decision."

Soul grinned, jagged teeth gleaming. "Yeah."

"Okay, Soul. If that's what you want," Lord Death answered tentatively, stretching his fingers. White light erupted in the Death Room, throwing shadows across Soul's face. There was no turning back.


	4. Chapter 4

When Soul became a death scythe, it felt like every fiber of his being had been strengthened to near godly power. In the flashing ray of light in the Death Room, Soul felt his very conscience feel like it was splitting in two, and his knees hit the floor with a thud. Clenching his head and squeezing his eyes shut, a groan escaped Soul as he felt the very molecules of strength being ripped from his body. Gradually, the light faded, and Soul wobbled to his feet, doubled over on his knees.

"Damn it. What was that?" he wheezed, feeling as if the weapon had just completed a marathon.

"If you remember correctly, Soul, the consumption of the witch's soul in France gave you the strength to carry Maka through the city. When the soul was removed, along with the other 99 kishin souls, your body was simply feeling fatigue from the extraction," Shinigami explained, miniature souls bobbing in his hands.

"Right," Soul nodded, standing up straight. "So I see you've been trying to find new meisters."

"Correct. None thus far have been as gifted as your Maka was, with the girl in the last pair having the best shot at being your new meister."

"Yeah, sure. Cool," Soul said hastily, swiping the souls from Lord Death and shoving them in his pocket. "Thanks but no thanks. I got a meister already."

"Sou—."

"Really, thanks, Lord Death. But I have something to take care of!" Soul called, already running for the exit. "I'll show that Spirit," he added under his breath.

"Spirit? Soul, Spi—." The door slamming cut off the Shinigami's voice, and Soul sighed in relief.

"On my way, Maka," Soul grinned, pausing outside the entrance to the DWMA. Spirit had disappeared again, lacking in his death scythe duties. Soul huffed. He was better at being a normal scythe than Spirit was a death scythe. Soul stared at the spot where the untidy man had been a minute before, before dashing down the numerous stairs leading from the academy.

Kid glanced out the window of Sid's class, watching the young scythe stare at the wall before running for the stairs. The reaper narrowed his eyes as Soul disappeared out of sight. The lack of symmetry in the weapon's outfit greatly disturbed him, and an itch began to irritate his head. But that was not what caught Kid's attention. Death scythes never came to the academy unless a state of emergency was declared. But even if that were to happen then the death weapons of the world would have converged on the Death Room.

"Sid, may I be excused from class today?"

"Why, Kid?"

"The lack of symmetry in this room is especially bothersome today. I feel ill."

"Well I was never the kind of man to deny my students sick leave. Go ahead."

"Thank you," Kid said, standing up and swiftly descending the stairs, Beezlebub already at his fingertips as he disappeared out the classroom door. It was time to follow Soul.

The motorcycle's engine revved as Soul steered the bike through the streets, finding many of the sidewalks barren and deserted, even for a Monday morning. "This is way cool," Soul grinned, swerving through a turn on the uneven cobblestone streets. "No walkers to watch out for."

The electric Chupa Cabras sign glowed neon ahead of the weapon, and Soul lessened pressure on the foot pedal, weaving in between the bar and another building. He lurched the motorcycle to a stop behind Chupa Cabras, foot held out to catch himself and the bike as it leaned over. One hand still clenched the handlebars of the bike as another rested in Soul's pocket, feeling the dull coolness the souls radiated.

"Hey," Soul called, glancing around the small area behind the bar. The offensive stench of alcohol and old food drifted through the air from a rusted green dumpster nearby. Soul lifted the goggles from his face, placing them on his head, to squint into the shadows cast by another brick building.

"Hey, are you the guy who called me?" Soul asked, seeing the vaguest form of a person outlined in the darkness cast by a towering nearby building. "It's 11:57, I made it on time," he stated, glancing at the watch beneath his dress shirt sleeve.

"Soul," the voice called with a devious smile.

Ink black liquid flowed out from the shadow, cutting across the cobblestone in twisting paths. Dark opaque fluid beaded in between the bricks of the buildings, before cutting eerie paths down the wall. A pale hand extended from the darkness, clothes in fine black suit material.

"So good to see you, Soul."


	5. Chapter 5

"Who are you?" Soul demanded, already poised in a fighting position, moments away from making his arm a scythe.

"No one you need to know," the voice said slyly, hinting at subtle irritation. The hand disappeared into the shadows, seemingly engulfed in the black nothingness. "Do you have what I want?"

"99 souls," Soul said, withdrawing the shimmering spheres of light, their lights making his face glow a soft red. "And one witch soul," he added, watching as the iridescent purple soul gleamed above the rest.

"Drop them," the voice commanded, and the black puddle expanded to Soul's feet. "Into the liquid."

The weapon's hand tensed, clutching the souls Maka and he had worked so hard for. But _this_ was for Maka. Soul's fingers slowly opened, allowing the souls to roll out of his flat palm and into the black fluid. It slowly pulled the souls downwards, enveloping them like syrup.

The voice in the shadows licked his lips and flashed a smile. "Thank you, Soul," it said, shuffling in the dark, to produce a small, glowing soul.

"Your meister?" it inquired, holding the blue sphere out. "Make sure you check."

Repressed tears stung Soul's red eyes as he nodded. "Yeah, that's Maka," he said, holding out his hand to grasp his meister's soul from the stranger. "Maka," he whispered.

Kid's black and white hair waved in the wind as he soared through Death City on his skateboard. A flying skateboard, nevertheless, but he coasted with the ease of a professional boarder, hands casually shoved in his pockets. He had talked with his father before leaving the academy; Soul was more of a wreck than anyone realized. The weapon had finally snapped without his meister. Kid activated his Soul Perception, albeit weaker than Maka's had been, searching the city for Soul.

"That's Maka's soul," Soul breathed, hand hovering above his meister's soul.

"Yes, Soul. This is your meister," the unknown voice said, bringing the little blue soul in contact with Soul's hand. The moment the cool wavelength of the soul touched his hand, it felt like a weight had been lifted. Like Maka was alive, and back at the apartment, lecturing him for not studying for the last test.

"Maka," he whispered, bringing the soul to his chest. "I won't let you get hurt again, Maka."

The son of Shinigami slowly drifted into the alley way of Chupa Cabras, skateboard evaporating into nothingness, watching Soul clutch a bobbing blue soul to his disheveled dress shirt. Soul's unflattering appearance aside, Kid was disturbed, watching the expanding pool at Soul's feet and dripping across the walls. This was wrong. All of it. Soul was making a deal with the madness.

"You remember what Maka said, right Soul?" the voice asked.

"A sound soul… dwells within a soul mind… and a sound body," Soul recited hesitantly. The words felt false coming from his mouth.

"A sound soul," the voice said, hand motioning to the blue light Soul held. "Dwells within a sound _mind_ and a sound _body_. You're missing something, Soul."

"I'm missing Maka," he mumbled, realization dawning upon him. "I'm missing Maka," he repeated, louder than before.

"That's right. You need Maka," the voice declared confidently. "Then you get your meister back."

"But Maka—."

"Hook Cemetery, Soul. You were there. You were there _yesterday_. You know where Maka is."

"Hook Cemetery," Soul mumbled.

"Tonight. You can have your meister tonight," the voice smiled.

"Maka," Soul said, glancing back at his glistening motorcycle.

"Go home. Get some rest. You'll need it," the voice said, and Soul had already carefully put Maka's soul in his pocket and snapped up the bike's kickstand.

Kid hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to warn Soul or to escape. A motorcycle engine roared and Kid decided he would just have to see Soul in Hook Cemetery that night. Beezlebub materialized out of swirling black mist, and Kid had already levitated high above the buildings by the time Soul roared out of the alleyway. Looking down at the dark liquid behind the bar, Kid knew this situation had gotten was worse. Much more worse than he thought.


	6. Chapter 6

_So, an author's note every few chapters? Yes? Okay. Anyways, hello! Sorry about the big chunk of space between chapters. Or what felt like a large chunk of time I guess. But Sandy was being annoying :/ But here's chapter six! I have this projected to be about 10 chapters (I mean they're relatively short chapters but oh well) so it will become clear when I have to end the story T^T. But the plan I have is genius (wow, I sound as cocky as Black Star) but I hope it will satisfy everyone. _

_I gave a little tip last author's note, so it's time for another! :D Sorry if this annoys any of you. So Author's Note: Just. Watch. Soul. That's all you really need to do. It will help you figure out future events :3_

"Scythe-y boy!" Blair greeted, throwing her chest in his face. "Did you hear any word of when Maka will be back from her trip?"

"Soon," Soul answered, tossing his keys on the counter, nose now impervious to the sexy kitty's advances.

"That's great! She's been gone so long, you know?" Blair declared. "I should make a cake to celebrate!" The woman leapt off Soul, dancing towards the stove and cluttered counter.

"Yeah, I bet she'd love that," Soul said, collapsing on the couch.

"Nyah! I have work now! I can't!" Blair realized with a frown. "Oh well, something can be thrown together later tonight," she said with a wink, shaking her finger. "Pump pumpkin pumpkin!" she called, and the purple-haired woman was clad in her usual outfit.

"Bye Souuuuul!" she purred. "Call me if Maka comes home early!"

The scythe grunted, and the door slammed behind Blair. Soul waited for the signature click of the door locking, staring back across the apartment at the door. The lock clicked, and Blair disappeared down the hall. Soul waited a few seconds, listening only to the sound of his own breathing, before hopping off the couch and beginning to pace the room.

A shovel. A shovel was the most important item he would need. There was a very slim chance there was a shovel in the apartment, but Hook Cemetery would have at least one. If he broke open the storage shack's lock, there would definitely be one in there.

A mode of transportation. If anyone saw or heard the scythe going to the cemetery at midnight, he would be considered as crazy as Crona. That would not be good. His motorcycle was far too loud for the night time streets of Death City. What had he used back in the day, before coming to Death City to attend the DWMA? A bike? Had he brought that when he moved in with Maka?

Soul dashed for the closet, extra blankets and emergency food that Maka had bought cascading out. "Bike, bike," he mumbled to himself, shoving aside old photo albums that Spirit had neglected to pick up after Maka's death was officially announced. A muffled ring, like that of a bike bell, sounded to the left of Soul, and he immediately shoved out every inch of organized junk, before finding the familiar black frame of his bike. Maka hadn't tossed it. He grinned, lifting the bike out of the closet. It had been meant for a slightly smaller Soul, but, nonetheless, it was usable.

The junk of the closet was kicked back in, and the door left ajar. Maka would organize that when she got back. Soul set the bike down by the door to the apartment, sighing as he turned around to face the small space he shared with Blair and Maka. It was a mess. He glanced down at the leather dress shoes that were smudged and coated with dirt. At the dress pants that were covered in lint and dirt, and worst of all, the dress shirt, with its wrinkled fabric and untidy rolled up sleeves. True, this was not what Soul preferred to be wearing when Maka returned, but it would do.

The scythe ran a hand through his messy white hair, feeling the gauze he had neglected to take off. It reminded him of the sweatband he used to have, that got lost somewhere on a mission. Soul collapsed back onto the couch. Everyone thought he was this cold, aloof guy without a care as long as he became a death scythe. And he had been, at first. The night he had played the piano for Maka and agreed to become her weapon, that was who he had been.

Fighting and training and, for the love of Death, _living_ with someone broke his hard outer shell easily. He owed Maka for much more than making him a death scythe. She had been the reason he had any friends, any goals in life, any motivation, any anything. Which was why he had to get her back.

The cold little soul seemed to freeze his pocket, and he removed the soul for the first time to look it over. He had to admit, it was colder than Maka's soul had been, but perhaps that was because it had no body to reside in. He stood up, holding the bobbing soul in one hand, to get a jar from the cabinet. Gingerly, he slid the little soul in, letting it float in the open space of the glass jar.

This was all he needed for the night.

It was almost time to get Maka back.


	7. Chapter 7

Kid stood outside Soul's apartment at 11:50, watching the ex-death scythe sit blankly in front of the television. The eerie moon outside was staring at Kid, but the shinigami ignored it. If his prediction had been right, Soul would emerge at midnight precisely, and then proceed to Hook Cemetery. With Beezlebub tucked under his arm, Kid glanced at his watch again. Everything was in place for his plan, and Liz was hopefully watching over Patty at home. This job was far too mature for Patty, and without Patty he could not use Liz. This had proven to be a large complication.

However, Tsubaki had agreed to come along, and a chain scythe _did_ have perfect symmetry, so he hoped she would be of aid. The dark arm knew of the situation at hand, and how much trouble this would be. How Soul would despise the two of them for the rest of his life. But it had to be done.

"Kid?" Tsubaki called lightly.

"Yes, Tsubaki, I'm here," Kid said with a nod. Tsubaki walked towards the son of Lord Death, standing beside him to look up at the apartment. "We leave in a few minutes," he declared.

"Okay," Tsubaki nodded. "I just hope Soul isn't hurt too much."

"He won't be. He'll be emotionally scarred, for sure, and with that lack of symmetry he deserves to be, but nothing will become life threatening. I hope," Kid declared as Soul turned off the television and stood up. Kid dropped Beezlebub to hover above the ground, and set a foot on it. "Let's get going Tsubaki."

"Right," she nodded, transforming into a chain scythe with a flash of light. Kid held the weapon, unaccustomed to the use. Curse Patty's lack of maturity. He wanted guns instead of a blade. Luckily, Tsubaki was flexible. She could do much of the fighting, even with an unskilled meister.

Soul grabbed a backpack from his bedroom, dropping in the glass jar. Shoving one strap on his back, he swiped his apartment key from the counter, hastily shoving it into his pocket. Both hands grasped the handlebars of the old bike, which had been prepped and checked over a billion times so that it was in perfect condition. He wheeled it out into the apartment hallways, and took one look back at the small space inhabited by him and the girls. Or, rather, girl and woman. This would be the last time it looked so empty and dismal. He slowly closed and locked the door, before descending down the stairs with his bike. Hook Cemetery was not far. He would make it in a few minutes.

The cool night air rolled through Soul's unkempt hair, and he mounted the bike. The streetlights were on, but the houses were dark. Many people would be sleeping now. It was a Friday night, but there was never much partying on the weekend nights. If anything, Chupa Cabras would be crowded, but thank Death he wouldn't have to bike past there. Soul pushed down hard on the peddle, shoving off for the cemetery.

Not even the moon saw the young scythe peddling through the streets, the cool autumn air filling his lungs. Kid hovered several dozens of feet above the weapon, watching as determination overtook Soul's body. This was the loyalty Soul had for Maka. When Kid had first seen the two fight in Hook Cemetery, it had been evident. When Soul had yelled Maka's name as Sid grabbed her leg. When Soul had saved her from said attack. When he insisted they could perform witch hunter, giving a confident smile. Not all weapons had such devotion.

Dirt grinded beneath Soul's tires as he swerved to a stop in front of the gates of Hook Cemetery. The black iron fence curled into eerie letters, displaying the name of the graveyard. Hooks swayed in the light breeze hanging from the trees like a hangman's gallows, cold and sharp to the touch. Soul carefully unhooked the bar holding the entrance closed, allowing one gate to swing open with a high pitched creak. The weapon wheeled the midnight bike inside as small droplets of water hit Soul's face. It was not a good night to bring back a meister.

Soul left the bike leaning on the fence, before following the broken path towards the shed. Not a single creature in the area stirred, save for Kid, who had landed outside the gates, hiding behind a tree for cover. A muffled ringtone cut through the air, drifting through the dark night.

The weapon wheeled around at the noise behind him, arm already morphed into the familiar red and black blade. Shoulders tense, Soul scanned the vicinity, relaxing as the noise stopped. He turned around, proceeding for the shack once more.

"What do you want, Liz!?" Kid scolded in a hushed tone.

"Hey Kid. What's going on? You sound awfully quiet," Liz replied, analyzing her nails as Patty giggled in the background.

"Liz. What do you want," Kid repeated, composing himself.

"Oh yeah. Patty moved one of your paintings again. I told her to stop but she won't listen to me. You wanna get over here?"

Kid's knees shook. "It's not… _the_ painting… is it?" Kid asked, voice trembling.

"The one in the center of the mansion? Oh yeah it's that one. She tilted it," Liz said, as Patty laughed even louder in the background.

"Kid, we have a mission. We have to confront Soul," Tsubaki reminded him, flashing to view in the blade.

"Kid, the house is asymmetrical. You better come fix it," Lix said. Patty cackled louder still in the background.

"Kid," Tsubaki repeated.

"Kid," Liz echoed.

"I have to go," Kid whispered, clenching Tsubaki, rising back into the air. "I'll be there soon, girls!"

Deep red eyes glanced into the sky as something flew by, but quickly dismissed it, slinging a shovel out from behind his shoulder. It crunched as it hit the fresh dirt, resting in front of a large headstone. Maka Albarn, dearly departed meister. Soul knew better as he pushed down hard on the shovel, slinging the first bit of dirt away, early drizzles of rain beginning to hit his face. She was not gone. Just missing.


	8. Chapter 8

"Garbage," Kid grumbled, flying back towards Hook Cemetery. "They lied, Liz just wanted money for pizza. Dammit."

"Focus, Kid. We have a mission. What do we do about Soul?" Tsubaki questioned.

"We can't do anything drastic," Kid said with a sigh, regaining composure. "We wait until he reaches the casket, and then talk to him."

"With this weather, let's hope he doesn't get far."

"He's determined, Tsubaki. Soul won't stop until Maka is back in his arms."

* * *

A dull thud resounded in the still air as Soul struck the casket. He grinned, sharp teeth shimmering in the cool, rainy night. "I'm coming, Maka." Again and again the rusted shovel struck the dark wood, forcing away the dirt that had settled on top of the grave. Rain had begun to pelt down on Soul, as mud snaked its way up Soul's pants and across his arms. Wind blew Soul's hair, as he plunged the shovel into the ground repeatedly. As the last of the dirt was removed, a perfect rectangular casket came into view.

"Soul!" Kid yelled, descending from the sky at a fast rate. Beezlebub dissolved instantaneously, as Kid hit the ground running, holding Tsubaki tightly.

"Kid?" Soul questioned, facing the reaper and squinting through the storm.

"Soul, you have to stop," Kid said, approaching the weapon.

"Kid, what are you doing here?" Soul asked. "What, am I too asymmetrical to be here now?"

"No, Soul you—."

"I know plenty well, Kid. Maka's dead. But I'm bringing her back," Soul answered, tossing the shovel aside.

"Soul, don't!"

Soul descended into the grave, rain pelting his back as wind whipped around him. With the sound of scraping metal, Soul's arm became a scythe, and he slashed through the thin hinges of the casket. His fingers, strong from years of piano, gripped the underside of the lid, heaving upwards. The thick wood shifted, lifting a few inches off the bottom. The weapon grunted, hauling the top up once more. It budged a few more inches, before lifting entirely to reveal the insides of the coffin.

It was empty.

"I was trying to tell you, Soul," Kid said, staring down at the scythe from next to the grave stone. "Maka isn't dead."

"So, someone already brought her back?" Soul asked, clenching his fists.

"She never died."

"What do you mean she never died!?" Soul questioned, releasing the lid of the casket so it slammed.

Kid sighed, like he was readying himself for a long explanation. "Back in Paris, you and Maka were fighting well, but lacked the extra power needed to defeat the witch. So _you_ delved deeper into the madness. So deep you never fully came back. Yes, you and Maka were badly wounded, and all the events of France happened. Maka was taken to the dispensary for extra medical attention and you returned to the apartment. Maka's death was really a dream you had, that the black blood had made you think was real. And the funeral wasn't Maka's that you went to. It was Spirit's."

"Death Scythe? But ho—."

"He had slipped into bad habits. An alcoholic overdose had caught him alone at home, with no one to look after him. You had simply sat in your seat the whole time, staring off into space. Maka had been there, too. In disguise. Father didn't think you were stable enough to see her. So we let you return to the apartment to hopefully let the black blood work its way out of your system. And that's where things went downhill," Kid explained.

"But I got calls!" Soul yelled, jumping out of the grave, and Kid backed up.

"You imagined calls. You imagined another voice on the end of your phone telling you what to do. You imagined Death Scythe standing outside the DWMA. The black blood overtook you, blending together mirages and reality. Every time you left a room or a place, you alternated, falling into and out of insanity. The black blood's holding on tenaciously as we speak."

"How do you—."

"You've been under surveillance since you got home."

"Then why was Lord Death finding me a new meister?" Soul glared.

"To replace Maka," Kid answered.

"But Maka's alive. And this soul…" Soul trailed off withdrawing the tiny cold soul from his pocket.

"That's not Maka's soul. You killed someone for that, thinking they were really the madness handing you their soul. That wasn't black blood on the ground and walls. That was real blood. I could see how you could mistake that soul for Maka's. It belongs to the girl from before. In the DWMA. The one who must have been reminiscent of your partnership with Maka. The replacement."

Soul's hand trembled, dropping the small soul. "I don't… understand…"

"The voice talking to you behind that alley was the black blood. You killed someone, Soul."

"No I—."

"It's the black blood. You're not safe."

"But the grav—."

"I bet you think it says Maka Albarn," Kid interrupted, pointing at the headstone. "But it doesn't. It's blank. And the coffin was meant to be empty. It was a decoy in case you ever came to Hook Cemetery to dig up your meister."

The howling wind swirling around graveyard filled the empty silence between the two boys. Soul was in a tumult of emotion. Horror, disappointment, and most of all, anger. "So, what you're saying is… that the DWMA is keeping Maka from me because I'm not sane enough?"

"I'm sorry, Soul," Tsubaki added. "It was for everyone's safety."

The weapon's fists clenched as he stared at the ground. His head was hurting. "Do it, Soul," an unnamed voice whispered in the back of his mind. Lightning and insanity flashed in Soul's deep crimson eyes, as his arm flashed into a weapon. And then the scythe attacked the reaper.


	9. Chapter 9

"Tsubaki!" Kid yelled, tossing one end of the kusarigama with a clatter of chains.

"Right!" Tsubaki called.

The chain scythe encircled Soul, quickly wrapping around the other weapon's body. Soul hit the mud beneath his feet, as the air was knocked out of his lungs. "Soul," Kid stated, standing above the weapon once more.

Soul, struggling against the chains with his arm pinned to his side. He glared at the shinigami, red eyes clouded by insanity. "You didn't let me finish. I'm here to propose a deal."

The former death scythe relaxed, eyeing Kid suspiciously, the insanity gradually fading from his eyes. "Yeah? I'm listening."

"We'll give you back your death scythe status. Erase all the messes you made. All you have to do is move on, and carry on as if Maka was dead."

"What about Maka?" Soul questioned.

"She's under the impression you're dead. She never saw you after she woke up. So she assumed the worst."

"Where is she now?" Soul growled, glaring at Kid.

"On a mission with her new weapon. She adjusted pretty quickly, him being a scythe and all."

Soul sat up, and Tsubaki unwound herself from around him. "So Maka's moved on," Soul murmured, arm flashing back into a human hand in the rainstorm. "And this deal erases everything I did after the Paris incident?"

Kid hesitates before nodding, analyzing the woeful weapon. He had just been told he was insane, that he might never recover, that his meister was gone, that she was with another weapon, that his efforts had been wasted, and _she did not care_. Maka was oblivious to his entire existence.

"Any how do I go on living?" he said, words barely audible over the sound of rain and thunder. Kid saw the question was deeper than the weapon had let on and shifted uncomfortably.

"You can't contact Maka. She'll be your biggest insanity trigger because you resonated with her at the time." Tsubaki returned to human form in a blaze of white light, holding out her hand to Soul.

"Soul, I'm so sorry you had to go through this. But Maka's happy, and thinks you died protecting her. Isn't that what you want?" she said, holding out a hand.

Soul ignored the kind gesture, leaning on his mud splattered pants to stand up. "Do I have any other options?" he asked, straightening up.

"You could become the next Crona of the DWMA," Kid answered solemnly.

"Not cool," Soul sighed. He glared over at Tsubaki and Kid, scanning their faces. Kid was the blank slate he was unable to read, and Tsubaki held a look of pity and sympathy. "Are you going to make me get a new meister?"

Kid shook his head. "We know what you're going through."

"Yeah?" Soul said, eyebrows raised disbelievingly.

"Meisters and weapons die all the time."

"No, Kid, you don't get it," Soul argued, insanity gleaming in his eyes for an instant, before sliding back beneath the surface. "This is different. Maka's not dead. She's alive. But this is so much worse, because _I can't get her_."

"So you don't accept the deal then?"

The sound of the rain splattering against the stone and dirt occupied the silence between the boys, and Soul clenching his fists, glancing away from the shinigami. "No, you'd be an idiot not to accept that," Soul answered, before stalking away towards his bike.

"That's it? You're going to return to normal like that?" Kid yelled after the weapon.

"Yeah! It's not cool living in the past! I'm going back to live in the apartment!" he answered, wheeling the bike away from the fence.

Kid conversed with Tsubaki for a moment, before shouting over the storm. "Come to the DWMA tomorrow morning to get your death scythe abilities back!" Kid yelled.

"Whatever!" Soul said, wheeling the bike out the gate, and throwing a leg over the bike. Those guys were idiots, he was Soul Eater Evans, and he knew his partner was out there. She was only missing. And, sure, perhaps, he was insane for the rest of his life, but, for Maka, he would learn to distinguish reality for insanity. He grinned as the bike set off for home, raining slamming on his back. He was really getting his meister back. "Just try and stop me, Kid," he grinned.

THE END

Check out the sequel, A Cool Kind of Crazy, coming soon!


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